Where My Heart Lies
by TheFaultInMyWriting
Summary: After the fall, John shuts off the most important part of himself to cope, but he's not the same. Sherlock never saw it coming, but he needs to make it right again. For what is one to do without their heart? AU John(for a little while). Johnlock!
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

He may have been absent for more than two years, but there was not one day he didn't think about the man who had been his constant companion during their time together. During moments of absolute silence, when he had no immediate mission to take care of, when he was utterly alone and felt the dull ache of something _-something- _in his chest, he would think about the only person in the world who made him feel more human in the world merely by appreciating the qualities in him others deemed unacceptable.

Almost everyday, during those still moments of silence, usually after the taking down of one of the damned one's network, he would think about the man's depthless blue eyes, his sandy blonde hair, the different ways his lips would curl into one of his many smiles – his personal favourite; the smile he shared whenever they had a special moment…he would always feel a deep connection tugging at his heart during those rare instances. Those moments meant everything to the genius, for in that little portion of time they shared a connection, his mind was in sync with another, with _him_, and it was _marvellous. _

Those moments propelled him into each and every mission, with the burning desire and overwhelming need to protect him. Those moments made him live and strive for the man who is still yet to know that he's alive. He was never one for intuition, but deep down, he knew he will come back to him. Those moments, and the memories brought along with them, meant the world to him, and with each recollection of those moments his heart would beat and thump almost painfully, and louder than before. At first he couldn't understand it, but then one day, precisely 547 days after his absence, it clicked.

_Ah, _he thought. _So this is what love feels like._

And at last Sherlock had finally found his heart, only to realise it had been John's all along.

_John_

Everyday after the death of Sherlock had been a heart-wrenching struggle. Because on that day, the day he said his last words to Sherlock's tombstone, was the day he realised his heart was too much in pain to simply be grieving the loss of a friend, no, he was mourning the loss of a man he was utterly in love with, Sherlock Holmes. But it was too late for John, and yet altogether too soon.

John never had the opportunity to come to terms with his feelings for Sherlock. No, instead, the feelings had just decided to plummet into his bruised heart as he stood before his best friend's grave. He didn't even see it coming. All too suddenly, John found himself drowning, drowning in a fierce current of agonisingly raw emotions; _love, grief, bewilderment, helplessness, suffering, fury, abandonment, _and the most eminent- _eternal loss. _It was overwhelming. Just too much. John couldn't breath. The emotions hacked at his heart. Its was like he could physically feel it, the heart that had always governed his mind and life, was being severed and ripped apart in bloody gushes. It felt like hot blood swarmed through his chest, drowning his lungs, _no air…_ John found himself on his knees, eyes tightly closed with streams of tears running down his cheeks, one hand clutching at his chest where he felt his heart's torment and the other arm was stretched out before him, fingers splayed, gripping the soft, freshly dug soil that now held Sherlock's deceased body. The tears that streaked down John's damp face dripped down onto the soil, sinking beneath, which left John idly thinking that at least some part of him would reach his loved one's body. And for that one day, a heap on the ground on a grave, sobs racking his body uncontrollably, unable to breath or think properly and feeling the power and mind-consuming suffering of his heart, John let himself lose control and give into the innate and desperate need to grieve and come to terms with who he had lost, not the great Sherlock Holmes, no, it was the man who made his life whole and worth living for, the man that made John feel worthy of true companionship and love.

But he was gone now.

Everyday after that was a tremendous fight for control. It was the most arduous task he had ever done, but he strove on and did it. John controlled his thoughts, his actions, and most importantly, his battered heart. He refused to feel his heart lurch out in agony at the thought or mention of Sherlock, or even feel remotely fond for another. But John didn't stop at controlling; he made sure his heart was stifled, suffocating, so that not one whisper could be heard from it. Then one day, precisely 547 days after Sherlock's death, he was unable to feel it anymore.

John Watson had completely lost his heart – and he couldn't even bring himself to care. In truth, however, his heart was buried 6 feet under, with Sherlock's body… but John would never know.


	2. Chapter 2

**I am so sorry I took so long to upload this next chapter, truly! I was going to make it longer but I hate to keep you all waiting, so here! I'll just be sure to add the extra parts into the next chapter. Enjoy **

He was on his way.

The last one had left him battered and bruised, but other than that, Sherlock could not have been more pleased to finally be coming home to Baker Street.

Baker Street. Cases. John.

John. _All for him._

Sherlock had never been this impatient in his life; waiting in his private jet plane, right elbow propped up on the arm rest, with fingers pressed against his pursed lips, looking out the window he never thought time could trickle so slow. _Obviously it's scientifically impossible, but not improbable for the mind's perception. _

Sherlock's impatience only fuelled to his zooming mind; thinking and rethinking through all the possible first encounters he could have with John. His John. Although he was pleased to be finally retuning, Sherlock could feel anxiousness pulsing through him. It wasn't something the detective was accustomed to, and so left him over-analysing the reasons to this unfamiliar sensation.

Sherlock sighed. There was only one thing for it. He delved into his mind palace, and found himself standing in an unfamiliar hall lined with closed doors. Immediately, Sherlock moved to open and look into each and every room, knowing that his anxiousness must be in relation to his blogger. _But why, though?_ Sherlock knew his answer resided within one of the closed doors. However, after a while, and countless doors, there was nothing to find and Sherlock was beginning to feel increasingly frustrated. By this time, Sherlock had found himself in a darker area of the hall, the furthest place he had built from his palace. There he stopped before the door. It was significantly more different from the others. It was a dark, heavy metal door, bolted shut. Plain, no writings engraved, no symbol, nothing. That struck Sherlock as odd, as he always made sure to label everything in his mind palace to make easier access. Even more confounding, Sherlock didn't remember making this room. _I must have deleted it? But it's still here…_ there was only one thing Sherlock knew for sure though, and that this door held his answers. Taking a mental deep breath, Sherlock unbolted the looming door, letting it swing open before him.

_Ah, yes. This one_. And with that single thought, Sherlock stepped over the threshold.

_**Meanwhile**_

John was filling out papers and writing reports that afternoon at work, after having the full morning treating patients. Sifting through his papers, John felt immensely relieved to not be dealing with patients for the remaining day; he no longer held the same tolerance for those complainers and their medically-unrelated issues. _If you're sick, I'll prescribe you with the needed medicine and you can go deal with it. I am not interested in your dull life stories._

'_**Dull'**_

…_that's not my usually terminology, that's-_

_**BLOCKED**_

"Just about done with these, better be off then", John muttered, unable to recall his previous line of thought. Having his papers packed away, John was putting on his jacket when a knock on the door sounded.

John looked up. "Yep, come in" _Not really expecting anybody._

A blonde woman poked her head in, and then slid the rest of her body through the door, unsure of herself. _Oh, her. _John refrained from rolling his eyes. _The new one. _

"Sorry to interrupt you…" she started.

"Not at all, was just heading out actually"

"Oh, really? Well, I was too and er, I was wondering if you might like to grab a bite…?"

John knew this was going to happen sooner or later, the girl had practically been eyeing him for the past 3 weeks, since she started. Obviously, John wasn't interested… but the thought of dating her just for sex did cross his mind. However, the more he thought about it, the more he knew it would take some work on his part and really, he just couldn't be bothered. Even if he could, it would end badly and John wouldn't care enough to deal with the repercussions.

"Yeah… sorry not interested Margaret"

"Actually, it's Mary"

"Yep. Right. I'm going to be off now so…" John gestured his hand towards the door, signalling Mary's leave. Taken back by John's bluntness, a dark look crossed the woman's face before she slammed the door behind her.

Unfazed, John continued to gather his things. He slung his carry bag over his right shoulder and made his way towards the door. '_Knock knock'_

_Now what?!_

John sharply opened the door; Sarah was standing there with a disapproving expression. John ignored it. "Yes? I was just leaving"

Sarah got straight to the point. "You didn't have to be so rude to Mary, John. I think you should apologize"

With slightly raised eyebrows, John remarked, "I think you should keep your nose out of other people's business.' Before pushing past Sarah, and walking off into the hall.

Sarah called after him, "You can't keep acting like this John! You are not this person… _he _wouldn't want you to be like this."

At the mention of Sherlock, John's heart would have once faltered and thumped painfully, but now there was nothing. Instead John continued his determined stride, staring straight ahead with one mere thought in his mind: _Good thing he's too dead to notice._

Having finally arrived in London, Sherlock would have wanted nothing more than to see John. But his brother had other things in mind.

Lazily slouched back in his chair, Sherlock impatiently enquired, "And why must we feel the need to discuss the past two and a half years?"

They were in Mycroft's office, and his brother's look of disdain and contempt was more prominent than usual.

"We need to discuss not what happened to you, brother dear, rather, what has happened to John in your absence."

Of course Mycroft kept a close watch on John all this time, Sherlock was familiar with that and also grudgingly grateful. But at the mention of John, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he pushed himself in his anxiousness to the edge of his chair.

"What happened to John?!" Sherlock demanded, with all the worst possible scenarios blazing through his mind in that instance before he mentally pushed it all down and paid close attention to Mycroft. Mycroft, whose eyes were slightly worried – and … sad? _Surely not_

Mycroft lowered his eyes, briefly wondering how to phrase his concerns right before meeting them with Sherlock's again, and in a resigned and deflated voice he replied.

"He's not the same, Sherlock"

Sherlock huffed, annoyed, but relieved all the same. "Well of course he isn't, I've been away! He still believes I'm dead so surely-" but Sherlock faltered as Mycroft's expression deepened, and yes Sherlock was now sure he could trace sadness in those eyes. His earlier worries came back all at once. Sherlock took a deep breath, bracing himself before he asked the dreaded question. "What- what do you mean?"

"The John you know is dead Sherlock, a host now resides in his body."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" Why must his brother always be so cryptic?! Especially when it comes to matters of human nature! A cold fury unfurled itself in Sherlock's chest. He couldn't believe his brother was delaying his time with John with nonsensical talk. He was infuriated and was itching to leave abruptly, but decided to hear out his brother's response, that is, if it made sense this time.

With a knowing look, Mycroft simply smiled sadly. "Go see for yourself, I know you can hardly wait for your _reunion_."

Sherlock stood seething and threw his brother a cold glare before striding out of the office. But even as Sherlock walked on with resolve, he could not help but feel a twinge of uneasiness constricting his chest as he furiously pondered over Mycroft's words.


	3. Chapter 3

When he arrived home, John was slightly surprised to find a visitor waiting in front of his flat with their back turned. Mrs. Hudson.

John cleared his throat, indicating his arrival. "Mrs. Hudson"

She turned and looked at him was sad eyes. "John, dear, "she smiled tentatively. "Hello"

"How did you know where I lived?"

There was a knowing look in her expression but she didn't answer.

John sighed, "Never mind"

"John, I know it isn't my place to say… I know that I'm not your mother or anything, but I've been hearing about your behaviour in these recent months and I couldn't help but be concerned about you."

Looking down, John was nodding absently. Then glancing away, he bluntly said, "Sarah called you"

"Yes, dear. But also Mike and Greg have too," Mrs. Hudson spoke softly, almost fearful of John's changed character.

Some tiny part in John's mind begged him to be considerate of Mrs. Hudson's worries, as much as he really didn't care and would rather brush her off. And he was about to do just that but then that minute part of his old self whispered reason. _She won't give up on you if you continue on with the way you are. None of them will. _

There was only one thing for it then: pretend to be his old self.

Deliberately softening his expression, John feigned a smile and placed his hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder in a gesture of warmness.

"I've just been going through some difficult times Mrs. Hudson. There is no need to worry, I'm truly fine."

At his words and touch, Mrs. Hudson visibly relaxed; relieved to hear it was nothing overtly serious. "John, just please be careful with how you act towards others, you're hurting them and don't really seem to realise it!" She said, slightly exasperated. Then, she added "A bit like someone we used to know," Mrs. Hudson said this with raised eyebrows, emphasising exactly whom she was referring to.

Withdrawing his hand from her, John fought to keep his expression the same, but he had involuntarily flinched at the emotional blow. Rarely was he emotionally caught off guard, but Mrs. Hudson's comparison to… to… _him_ had taken the air out of his lungs, and left John shocked. _I really have strayed…to be like him._

"I- I'll- " John composed himself once more. "I'll take more notice on my actions from now on. Prom- "

But the word died on his tongue.

His peripheral vision had been nagging him to turn and look during his discussion with Mrs. Hudson, and he had finally chosen to listen to his gut feeling and look. John glanced over to the corner of his flat building, dark blue eyes becoming wide-open in disbelief and fear.

_No_

He couldn't stop staring. _No, it couldn't be!_

It was getting dark, and he was roughly 15 metres away, but there was no mistaking the tall figure in the trench coat _who was staring right back at him._

With that realisation, something inside John snapped and before he knew it, he was running. Not towards the waiting form, no. Away.

John Watson was running away.

The sight of the familiar figure sent an overwhelming burning throughout John's chest, spreading to the ends of his toes and fingertips. He had no idea what the feeling was, only that it absolutely terrified him. And so he ran, instinct and adrenaline coursing through his veins, not knowing where he was running. He didn't notice Mrs. Hudson's cry after him or the shout of his name from a baritone voice. With only the feeling of growing panic pounding through him, John just knew he had to get _away._

In all his time in the army, John never, ever, chose to run away in battle. For how could you fight for something you believe in if you run? So he always remained on the field, fighting and helping the wounded unless it was absolutely necessary to retreat. Even then, John wouldn't give up easily; a fellow soldier would usually have to drag him away. He hated it but granted, it did save his life numerous times. So when it comes to fight or flight, John always considered himself to be a fighter, and face his confrontations head-on. But not this time. This time, John fled as though his life depended on it. It was easier to fight for something if you believed in it, but Sherlock Holmes alive? John had never believed in that notion; he would have suffered immensely more with false hope like that. But…seeing _him_ right before his eyes went against everything he believed in, and against the man he had turned himself into in the last two years. So running was the only option now- it was the only way John could deal with what he had just witnessed, and most importantly, deal with his now unhinged emotions – emotions he hadn't allowed himself to feel for a very, very long time and them resurfacing again frightened John to his core. John didn't believe he can go back to who he was; he's been psychologically and emotionally messed up too much. _I don't know if I'll ever feel right again._

_Maybe he can help you with that, _the small voice of hope whispered to him.

Before he could argue with a voice he believed was long-ago diminished, he heard the pounding of footfalls on the pavement behind him, and without needing to look, John knew he was being pursued by _him_.

_Nononononononononono_

John pushed his legs to run faster, pointedly ignoring the burning of his muscles and his laboured breathing.

But his back-from-the-dead partner only sped up too, refusing to lose John. In fact, John heard him closing up on him, and felt, yes _felt_, the slightest brush of fingertips against his shoulder blade, trying to pull John back. The touch shot through him, adding a new burst of adrenaline for John, and he spurred onwards, faster with the raw energy. Behind him he heard a tiny huff of annoyance.

By this time, John found that they were running through a park adorned with large oak trees and that night had fallen, which, in this situation, was a bad thing. The street lights were too far away to cast a glow for John, and even though he could see where he was running, he couldn't see enough to be careful of his footing. John nearly tripped over a small mould of grass, stumbling and before he could right himself back again, he felt two strong hands on his sides. Before he knew it, John was tackled to the ground, face-first into the damp grass. "Oomph!"

The tackle let to a scuffle on the ground, but he was too quick for John, and had restrained him effectively. Fighting against the hands that now held his own above his head, and the legs that straddled his waist, pinning his body face-down, John let out strangled screams.

"Noo! No! NO! LET ME GO!" John screamed, thrashing from side to side, heart pounding hard, as the rush of anger, panic and fear filled his constricted chest. He couldn't breath. He had to get out of this, had to keep fighting - !

"John, please"

John immediately stilled, going quiet. The whispered words sounded like they were uttered by a broken man. A heart-broken man. The man above him was panting heavily, his breaths gasping out as though he was in pain.

John could feel a sob rising in his throat as he pressed his forehead into the soft ground, eyes screwed shut in misery. The person holding him down had broken them both. John sagged underneath the weight, after all the pushing and struggling, he felt weak. He felt panic and fear dissipate, leaving sorrow behind. _My heart must be finally catching up with me, _he thought bitterly.

After a moment, John heard him take a shaky deep breath, before leaning down near John's head, curls brushing his cheek.

"I'm going to let you go now," he murmured, deep voice resonating sadness. The warm breath against his cold cheek sent a tiny shiver down John spine, and he found himself suddenly yearning- _NO_

John focused on cold hard feelings instead and on the weight that had been carefully lifted from him. He then braced himself to encounter the man he thought he'd never see again; the one who destroyed both of their lives, what they had, the relationship they shared, the relationship they could have had… the man had demolished it all the day he jumped.

Pushing off the cold grass, John gingerly stood and turned to finally face him, his pursuer, his unmaking, his – Sherlock.

Sherlock.

His unwavering gaze pierced John like a bolt of electricity, making his heart seize and stutter, unable to tear his own eyes away. Nor did he want to. Sherlock looked haggard, and his grey-blue eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, slightly tinged with uncertainty. But he kept on staring at John intently, the pale blue of his irises burning bright against the night while the rest of his figure blended perfectly in with the darkness.

Neither of them looked away, just stared silently at one another, a thousand words and expressions flitting between them.

And just like that, their locked gaze had cast them in an almost trance-like state. It was as though a spell had draped over them, like a warm blanket holding only the two of them, wrapped in their own bubble, making them oblivious to the outside world. The only thing that was between them as they slowly inched closer to one another was their wisps of cold breath from the crisp night air. John couldn't think, only feel, and he felt a pull towards Sherlock, and he knew Sherlock felt it too. Closer they got until the were only a breath away from each other, close enough for John to bring his face closer to Sherlock's…the spell holding, warm and right… closer, closer, closer…

And then-

"John" Sherlock breathed.

The spell broke.

**So guys, what'd you think of that? Please let me know! It really does help with writing the story **

**And thank you for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

John immediately jerked back away from Sherlock, shock paling his features.

Sherlock instantly regretted talking out loud. He already missed John's closeness, and now… now John was staring at him as though he wanted nothing more than to get away from him again…and yet simultaneously… beat Sherlock to a pulp – though that was expected with John's known temper.

"John…" Sherlock started, he needed to explain everything.

"No. Shut up Sherlock. You listen to me." John's voice rasped out, raw with unhinged emotions. He looked positively furious now.

"You-" John paused, gathering himself up.

"You ah-" he started again, but seemed unable to fully form the words.

John took a longer pause. Looking down at the ground and inhaled deeply. His mouth was pressed into a tight line, hands clenched into fists and body trembling.

Just as Sherlock was about to open his mouth to speak once more, John's face suddenly looked up and Sherlock didn't see the fury there anymore. It was just pain, open vulnerable pain.

"How could you do this to me?" John cried out, voice breaking on the last word. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt like a physical blow to be seeing the hurt in those depthless blue eyes.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around John, and before he can think twice, Sherlock had already stepped forward to do so.

"No!" John nearly shouted at Sherlock's advancements, practically leaping back, looking alarmed, almost fearful of the man before him. Sherlock flinched back; hurt at the rejection. Hurt to now clearly see that John wasn't the same. _Mycroft was right._

The sudden jolt of realisation transported Sherlock back to a memory about jet planes and mind palaces…

_Flashback_

_Ah, yes. This one._

When Sherlock stepped over the threshold, he found himself in the room he had every right to delete from his conscious memory. It was a room built entirely by his subconscious, containing most of the things he believed he had deleted altogether from his mind palace. Well apparently not. Sherlock's sharp eyes noted that most of the memories in the room were about his awful experience of childhood and growing up. He could see it all so clearly, like little cinemas scattered around a huge dark room. A huge dark room that held an overwhelming feel of consuming him in anxiousness entirely. Because as he watched the flickering, old memories around him, looking for a meaning, a connection, between them all, he felt a growing dread grow within him; he knew he wasn't going to like what he found. These memories held some sort of foreboding connection to John. And as Sherlock's gaze lingered for a few seconds on each old memory, it started to become clear to him, devastatingly so.

_Hurtful laughter-_

_Name-calling. Freak. Loner. Weirdo-_

_Only best friend in the world being put down after being poisoned-_

_Desperately wanting to feel appreciated and loved-_

_Never having warmth in his life so he locked it all down-_

_Adolescent beatings by thick-witted bullies-_

_Mind-numbing drugs, only means of escape from his dreadful life-_

_Never having the opportunity to connect with another human soul-_

_Never knowing the feeling of falling in love-_

_Only forever knowing the feeling of rejection and loneliness-_

_Oh_

_Rejection and loneliness._

That was Sherlock's answer. John had cured Sherlock of loneliness and had always accepted him for who he was; different from ordinary, actually extraordinary…John had called him once. Initially expecting rejection from the man, Sherlock had been surprised for his first deduction of John to be greeted with praise instead of the usual insult. John always made Sherlock felt secure and appreciated. But now… so much has changed. Sherlock was apprehensive that John will reject his return, reject Sherlock, casting him back into the world of loneliness. And then who would he have to anchor to? No one. He would be left utterly forsaken, once again. Sherlock couldn't have that; he didn't think his heart would be up for it anymore. The only thing that kept him going for the past two and a half years was the sweet knowledge of being able to see John's warm familiar face once again.

Finally finding his answer to his nervousness, Sherlock made a dash to get out of the dreadful room before it consumed him entirely in its depressiveness.

Back in the jet plane, Sherlock resurfaced from his mind palace with the opening of his eyes, left to mull over about his disturbing findings.

_Flashback ends_

Back in the present, Sherlock's mind started racing, and suddenly he couldn't stand John refusing him. Not the man who held his heart. Alarmed and frightened he would forever lose him, Sherlock rushed forward and tightly grasped John by his forearms, ignoring his protests, piercing grey-blue eyes unflinchingly staring into John's navy one's. Sherlock was desperate for John to know, to understand and forgive him. To accept him back into his life again. To love him once more.

"John you have to let me explain!" Sherlock's baritone voice was frantic and pleading. "I did it to protect you! You would have died if I didn't fake my suicide. You would have been forever lost to me and I couldn't allow that. I can't be without you, John. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't tell you until now. I wanted to, oh so much. But again, I could risk your life. For the last two and a half years, John, I've been dismantling Moriarty's network. To protect you, all for you… for us."

Sherlock's deep voice that had started out loud, adamant and desperate, had now become a low, quiet murmur at his last words, almost shy of his admittance. Sherlock's pleading eyes searched John's…and he looked, well lost. Resigned. Defeated.

John's eyes spoke volumes but he remained silent.

Anxiety steadily was creeping over Sherlock, until he was unable to stand it any longer. "John, please, say something!" 

Finally breaking eye contact with Sherlock, John simply sighed, looking down and shaking his head slowly.

Sherlock waited, nerves threatening to jump out of his skin.

"You don't know what your death has done to me," John began quietly. "I-I had to change Sherlock. I couldn't…" John took deep a shuddering deep breath. "I couldn't be without you, so I…I stopped being me…if you can understand. I stopped feeling. I stopped caring. Sherlock – I've rendering myself heartless… I don't have a heart anymore!" John almost exclaimed in his frustration and sorrow. A pause, then so softly, Sherlock had to strain his ears. "It died the day you did."

_No. _Sherlock refused to believe it, believe that his John was heartless. Without a heart- whatever you want to call it. He knew that his John was still there. Him and his heart. And John needed to know that.

"No" Sherlock's voice almost purred out, low and deep, once again nearing John. "You have a heart." Sherlock slowly reached down and grasped John's hand, noting his sharp intact of breath at intimate contact. "All this time it's been with you." He slowly brought their hands up. "You just didn't know." Sherlock gently placed John's hand flat on his chest, own hand covering his small one, both able to feel the beating heart underneath. "Mine," Sherlock whispered, looking intently down at John, savouring their closeness once again. John, however, continued to stare at their intertwined hands on Sherlock's chest, trying to fathom his words.

Sherlock simply gazed at John, not frightened in the slightest about his long-awaited admittance of love. He thought he would be, _but this is John, and he will never try to hurt me no matter how much he's claimed to change. I still trust him completely, with everything I have._

Still staring at their hands, somewhat dazed, John whispered "You…all this time?"

"Yes"

John seemed to be struggling with something. _An inner turmoil, _Sherlock gathered. John's eyebrows were furrowed, and the hand over Sherlock's heart had lightly grasped his coat. But, as Sherlock's gaze wondered down to the hand by John's side, he noticed it was drawn into a tight fist, knuckles almost white from the exertion.

"John?"

That seemed to jerk him out of his conflicting thoughts. Stiffly, John removed his hand from underneath Sherlock's, leaving the detective's hand to fall limply to his side, and took a step back, eyes still lowered.

"I can't"

Sherlock could only stare at John, shocked and wounded. _Oh no, oh please God no. _

"I'm not the man you…" John couldn't say the words. _Fell in love with._ "And I don't know how to get back to him, or if I ever will. It just can't be, not like old times. It took all the strength I had to will my heart away, and I don't think I have the same strength to bring it back again. Not even for you."

Sherlock could feel something tearing his chest apart with each word John uttered. It was sucking the air out of his lungs, choking him, engulfing the detective in pain. Sherlock wasn't familiar with the sensation; he had never experienced it before. Then it clicked. _Oh, _he thought dully. _My heart's breaking._

Throat constricting, Sherlock could feel his hands and lips trembling, and no matter how much he tried to, Sherlock couldn't stop. He managed to hold back a sob, but that too hurt. Horrified and befuddled by his body's reactions, Sherlock could also feel tears burning at the back of his eyes, threatening to come forth and spill over. Trying not to gasp out at the sudden intrusion of misery and loss, Sherlock was barely holding it all in.

John, who had finally raised his eyes to Sherlock's, simply watched the other man slowly breaking down in front of him, smiling wryly.

"It'd get better, Sherlock." There was something in John's expression that Sherlock, now having a difficult time breathing air in and out of his compressed lungs, couldn't place. He wasn't exactly mocking him, but he wasn't necessarily being kind either. But John knew what Sherlock was feeling, the understanding was in his eyes.

"You'll go back to being the heartless old prick you were before" _Before the fall._ The tight smile still held. Once again, John wasn't being mean, rather, it seemed like a shadow of his old self had fallen over him with the affectionate insult. Sherlock found himself incapable of swallowing properly, still barely holding the pain in.

With a final nod to Sherlock, John stepped past him and walked away. Well-hid tears now streaking his face, John didn't look back, but if he had he would have seen a tall man with heaving shoulders left to silently weep in his wake.


End file.
